


The Toughest Guy in Leitir Ceanainn

by AxmxZ (Boanerges), whatdoyoumeanitsnotawesome



Category: Letterkenny (TV), The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Autistic Wayne (Letterkenny), Comedy, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Horny Jaskier | Dandelion, Humor, Jaskier is into it, Letterkenny x The Witcher crossover, M/M, Rating May Change, References to Letterkenny (TV), Wayne is a Witcher, Witcher AU, Witcher!Wayne, and Modean's burned down again, book!Geralt bc he actually talks, hicks are witchers, skids are alchemists, snarky Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28225872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boanerges/pseuds/AxmxZ, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatdoyoumeanitsnotawesome/pseuds/whatdoyoumeanitsnotawesome
Summary: What if instead of Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier ran into Wayne of Letterkenny?
Comments: 68
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

_♪ "You think you're safe without a care,_   
_♪ But here in Posada, you'd be wise to beware,_

_♪ The pike with the spike that lurks in your drawers,_   
_♪ Or the flying drake that will fill you with horror,_

_♪ Need Old Nan the Hag to stir up a potion,_   
_♪ So that your lady might get an abortion..."_

“Abort yourself!”

This exclamation, half disgust half weariness, accompanied by a hurled bread roll, ended the performance. Jaskier bent over under a barrage of bready missiles, then tucked away his lute under the window and began to gather the spoils of his singing.

He cast a look around his unappreciative audience – shopkeepers ducked out for a lunchtime pint, bourgeois en route to the market town, apprentices shirking their duties, veterans grumbling about small pensions and glory days. The same crowd he had seen in a hundred small towns and hamlets across Temeria and Aedirn.

His gaze fell to a corner, where a solitary table stood occupied by a solitary customer. Milky daylight fell harsh and white over the table, leaving the customer in the shadow, but Jaskier could see that he sat as still as the statue of “The Doubting Theologian” of the seminary court’s fountain in Oxenfurt. His gaze seemed to be aimed solely and squarely at his pint; his arms were folded on his chest. Even from across the dimly lit tavern, Jaskier could see that he was scowling.

Plucking a cup of cider from a passing waitress’ tray, Jaskier headed over to the stranger and stopped a few steps away, leaning on a support column.

“I love the way you just… sit in the corner and brood…” he said, putting on one of his more subtle flirty smiles.

The stranger did not look up – or at least, Jaskier couldn’t tell if he had, because the man’s eyes were reduced to slits under the massive furrowed brow. His profile, lit by the sharp daylight coming in from the window, was a thing of peculiar beauty, like a priceless antique vase that had been smashed and reglued together into an even more compelling version of itself. It had history. It had character. It had a perfect Cupid’s Bow of a mouth and a nose that paradoxically widened towards the glabella.

Jaskier’s heart hiccupped.

“I’m here to drink alone, please-n-thanks,” said the stranger in a high-pitched monotone.

“Good, yeah, good. No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except for you.” Jaskier came closer to the stranger’s table. “Come _on,_ ” he cajoled. “Don’t wanna keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting.”

The stranger lifted his eyes off his pint and fixed his squinting scowl firmly on Jaskier’s face. 

“You’re spare parts, aren’t ya, bard?” he said through a tight and oh so square jaw.

“You must have some review for me,” said Jaskier, somewhat taken aback. “Three words or less.”

The stranger shifted his squint back to his mug. “Figger it oot.” 

Jaskier also looked at the mug. It was not one of the tavern ones of brown sloppily glazed clay. It was a contraption of leather and bladder, with metal supports to keep it upright. A mug for a man on the road who didn’t care to swap spit with strangers by sharing his utensils. There was a picture burned into the leather: a silhouette of a happily panting Shepherd dog. A round silver pendant hung round the stranger's neck with the same dog silhouette.

“Figure what out?” asked Jaskier.

“It’s impolite to talk aboot.”

“...What is impolite to talk about?” Something was scratching at the back of Jaskier’s mind, something about that dog, but he couldn’t quite…

“Abortion,” said the stranger. “You’re not exposedta air dirty laundry in public, especially when it ain't your laundry.” 

“Well, it’s not any particular abortion,” said Jaskier, defensively. “Just more of the general idea of one…”

“The general idea of an abortion, as well as any particular abortion, is entirely the prerogative of the person whose body is concerned in said abortion,” rattled off the stranger in the same monotone. Then he lifted the mug to his mouth and took a hearty swig, as if to close the topic.

“Wait a second,” said Jaskier, growing cold all over with curiosity. “Let me see your eyes.”

The stranger scowled even harder and made an unhappy creaking noise, like an old stair under a heavy tread.

“Oh fun,” said Jaskier. “Don’t like showing your eyes, big ole loner, two very scary-looking swords. I know who you are.”

The stranger rose from his chair in a jerk. “I’d have a dart,” he said to no one in particular, grabbed his mug and swords, and headed out the door. 

“You’re a Witcher! Uaithne of Leitir Ceanainn!” yelled Jaskier after him, swinging around a support beam. “Called it!”

A young man rose from his seat and followed the outed Witcher.

“A job I’ve got for you!” he called out. 

The Witcher stopped abruptly and froze without turning around. 

“A devil-- he's been stealing all our grain. In advance, I'll pay you. A hundred ducat.”

The Witcher whirled around in a single motion and froze again, facing the startled young man, who immediately pulled out a money bag from his shirt.

“I've no doubt you'll come through,” he said plaintively. “You take no prisoners, so I hear.”

“Bad gas travels fast in a small town,” remarked the Witcher, looking down at the money bag but making no motions towards it. 

“One fifty! Please, Master Witcher,” pleaded the young man.

“It's Wayne."

"Pardon?"

"Call me Wayne, I've got two swords and twenty darts to my name, I'm no one's master, fuck."

"Mas... Mister Wayne. Sir," said the young man, plainly unused to having men refuse their due honorific. "So you will do it?"

"When a man asks you for help, you help him."

With that, the Witcher turned around once more in a single motion and headed out the door, leaving the stunned young man still clutching his purse.


	2. Chapter 2

“Ah. Need a hand? I've got two. One for each of the, uh, devil's horns.”

“Hard no.”

“I won't be but silent back-up.”

The Witcher did another one of his hard stops in front of the stable, and Jaskier almost ran into his broad back.

“I heard your note, and, yes, you're right, maybe it’s time to forgo songs about abortions,” rambled on Jaskier, trying to gauge the Witcher’s mood from the tension in his thick neck. “Actual adventures would make better stories. And you, sir, smell chock-full of them. Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that onion? It doesn't matter. Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak!” 

“It's onion,” said the Witcher and stepped into the inn stable.

Jaskier followed him, breathing shallowly in the air thick with motes of dust and straw. 

“And who’s this?” asked Jaskier when the man opened a stall wherein stood a black bay mare.

“This is Stormy.”  
  
“She looks nice.”

“She’s a _beautiful_ horse,” said the Witcher, patting the mare’s black neck. For the first time, he spoke with inflection. Jaskier rushed to capitalize on it:

“Indeed! And presumably you want to keep this beautiful lady in oats, no?”

“It’s bar-leh,” corrected the Witcher, unfastening the mare’s feeding bag.

“Barley, then. So let me propose a trade. You let me tag along with you, and I in return write a ballad about our adventure to win the hearts and minds of the local populace, which, I’m not sure if you noticed, isn’t too fond of Witchers.”

The man emitted another unhappy creaking noise, like a door with rusty hinges on an October evening. Jaskier pressed his advantage:

“Surely you will want people to know that you’ve defeated the Devil of Posada?”

“Ain’t no such things as devils.”

“Well, whatever horned beast this turns out to be. After all, goodwill means more work, and well...” 

Jaskier cast a roving eye over the man’s tightly laced red homespun shirt and intriguingly tight twill cotton pants. The clothes were clean and in good repair, but the indigo trouser dye was faded around the knees and hips. 

“We could all use more gainful employment in this day and age,” summed up Jaskier, not wanting to offend the handsome Witcher by pointing out the shabbiness of his wardrobe, especially in contrast to Jaskier’s own embellished doublet.

“Are you suggesting that it would help you material-leh to watch me work?” asked the Witcher. 

Now that they were standing face to face, Jaskier noted that they were almost of a height, with the Witcher a hair shorter - though perhaps that was indeed due to his close-cropped auburn hair. 

“I suppose I am,” said Jaskier. “You’ve seen the aftermath of my current repertoire. Man cannot live on hurled bread alone.”

“‘Kay… just, ‘kay… d’youwannaknowwhat, ‘kay. You know what, I got some fuckin’ questions here.”

“Ask away!” 

“Now, when you say you want to quote-unquote tag along with me to write a quote-unquote ballad about our quote-unquote adventure, what is it you imagine said adventure will entail?”

Jaskier blinked. “How was that now?” 

“You want to be physically present at the time and place of my confrontation with the unknown entity currently being designated as ‘a devil’, so as to use your observations as material for a new song, more pleasing to the ears than speculatin’ about abortions,” rattled off the Witcher. “That suggests to me you have already formed a preconception of what said confrontation will entail, is that correct?”

“I… well, I imagine you will do battle with the devil?”

“What are you called?” suddenly asked the Witcher. 

“Oh? Oh! My sincere apologies, good Witcher, I have been a boor. I am known hereabouts as Jaskier.” 

Jaskier bowed, wishing he still had his hat with the egret feather to sweep the ground gallantly before the Witcher’s feet. Then again, the stable floor was covered with straw and horse apples, so perhaps it was for the best.

“Okay, Jaskier. Jaskier, okay,” said the Witcher. “Now, given that said devil steals the grain at night, and said grain is kept in a granary, which is not equipped with lighting fixtures, how precisely do you mean to observe said battle?”

“I…” Jaskier fell silent, stumped.

“Or do you mean to say,” continued the Witcher, “that you hope to write some gripping verse detailing all the noises you’ll be hearing in the dark, such as but not limited to: cursing, clanging, shuffling, and so forth?”

“Well, I wouldn’t be much of a bard if I didn’t let my imagination have a hand in it,” said Jaskier defensively. “Surely my mind can complete the picture suggested by the sounds.”

“Okay, Jaskier. Jaskier, okay. Okay, Jaskier,” repeated the Witcher. “Now, given that said devil steals the grain at night, and said grain is kept in a granary, which is not equipped with lighting fixtures, so that if a battle does occur, you will have to imagine what is happening rather than seeing it firsthand, what, pray tell, is the point of you being present there?”

Jaskier thought fast. “Perhaps you will pursue him outside and battle by the light of the moon! It’s a waxing gibbous moon, quite adequate to light a battle.”

“Suppose it’s cloudeh.”

“Well, then… in that case, I shall content myself with detailing the menacing sounds of the battle and whatever wounds you might sustain in the course of heroically protecting the town’s grain stores. Wounds to which I am prepared to minister with the greatest reverence,” he added.

There was a pause. 

“You’re fucking ten-ply, bard,” said the Witcher. “Come on, Stormy,” he said, patting the mare once more and leading her out of the stable. “Let’s go check out the scene of the crime.”

"So is that a yes?" called out Jaskier. 

"Pitter patter!" exclaimed the Witcher without turning around.


	3. Chapter 3

The granary, a hulking structure on toadstool-shaped staddlestones, was locked and bolted. Two men, farmhands by the look of them, sat on sacks outside; one slim and dark, with a scythe and a whetting stone, the other blond and portly, with a mug. 

“How’re you now?” said Wayne. He had a stalk of grain in his mouth now; Jaskier had not even noticed him pick it.

“Good n’ you?” asked the one with the mug. 

“Oh not so bad.” The Witcher squinted around at the sunlit pastoral idyll spread out before them. “Good day for hay,” he added.

“ _Great_ day for hay,” agreed the blond one. 

“Heard y’all been having some trouble with an unnatural sort of varmint.”

The brunet looked up briefly from his whetting and spat to the side. 

“Can confirm,” said the blond, now squinting back at Wayne. “And who might you be, good sir?”

“Name’s Wayne. Your aldermen hired me to take care of the varmint. And this is Jaskier." 

The brunet dropped the stone in the grass and boggled at Wayne. The blond slowly rose off the stump he occupied and extended his hand.

“I’m Jaro,” he said, shaking Wayne’s hand. “And that’s Emel. You a witcher?”

“Can confirm,” said Wayne.

“Well, dog my cats. Never seen a Witcher before. Thought they was supposed to be big scary fellas with crazy eyes and sharp teeth. Have a beer?” The blond gestured towards a large cask set up in the shade, evidently for the hay-makers still afield. "You can tie the horse to the oak over there."

“I’d have a beer,” said Wayne.

“I’d have a beer,” echoed Jaskier, who was starting to get into the swing of the conversation.

“So either of you been seeing the varmint, then?” asked Wayne once Stormy was nibbling grass and they were all holding mugs filled with weak ale.

“I hain’t, but others have. Emel has, innit right Emel?” 

The brunet nodded into his mug.

“I sure heard that rascal plenty though,” said the blond. “Lots of us have.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Wayne. “He out and about the place during daytime?”

“Not so much during daytimes. Daytimes he mostly be sleeping in the big field what borders the forest. But he’s out at dusk, sure enough.”

“He’s crepuscular,” piped up Emel all of a sudden.

“Oh yeah?” asked Jaskier, surprised.

“Yeah. And then he gets up to all sortsa maliciousness,” said the blond. 

“Oh yeah?” asked Wayne. 

“Yeah. T’other day he was smoking a pipe in a haystack. And that was that for that hay. Phewph! Up in smoke.”

Wayne creaked out a noise of disapproval, like a lantern swaying in the wind.

“Raids the cabbage beds, too. In his own way. He’ll eat a few cabbages, but then he’ll also eat the caterpillars off the rest of them, so’s you don’t know whether to curse or thank him. But when he finds turnips, hoo boy! Why he loves turnip greens so much, I don’ts know, but he will pull them out of the grounds soon as they come up. Hain’t had a turnip ripen this season yet.”

Wayne creaked out more disapproval, like a cupboard door wanting oil.

“And t’other day, he dug up a ditch by the pond where we keeps the carp. I tells ya, a ditch! Like a goddamn beaver. ‘Fore we knew it, half the water ‘d trickled out. All the fish, dead. The herons, the mallards, all them other birds, they buggered off to one of th’other ponds, and some of the turtles, what weren’t hibernatin’...”

“Aestivatin’,” piped up Emel. “Hibernatin’ is what theys do in winter-times.”

“He’s very fonds of the turtles,” explained the blond.

“Well, there’s a special place in Heaven for animal lovers, that’s what I always say,” said Wayne.

“And lemme tell youse something else about that deovel: he’s gots a mouth on him,” said the blond. “Now, normal-wise I wouldn’t care to repeat his pronouncements…” He trailed off.

“But just between us girls?” prodded Wayne.

“Betweens us girls, he’s taken to following womens home from fields and threatening to do lewds things to them.”

“Now that is plain unacceptable,” said Jaskier.

“That is degen behavior,” said Wayne with new steel in his voice.

“It’s no wonder the cup of your patience ran over,” said Jaskier.

Emel said nothing but spat heartily to the side.

“Where did you say this deovel lay the day away? In the hay?” asked Jaskier.

“Nay,” said the blond and waved his arm in the direction of the forest. “He’s holed up yonder in the field that now has hemp in it.”

“Hemp, you say,” echoed Wayne.

“And hops!” piped up Emel.

“Hops, you say,” echoed Wayne.

“Sounds like your deovel likes to party,” said Jaskier.

“Oh, he parties,” said the blond. “All too hearties, if you ask me.”

“That’s a greens-loving degen for yas,” said Jaskier with a straight face.

“Just where I’d expect to find a greens-ripping degen, deep in the bush,” said Wayne with a face equally straight.

“That’s a hay-burning degen all overs,” said Jaskier.

“Just where I’d expect to find a hay-blazing degen, lighting up the scrub,” said Wayne. 

“Yous guys want some rope?” asked Emel. “To tie him up and such?”

“No thank you, got my own.” Wayne extended his hand to Emel, then to the blond. Jaskier did likewise, but in reverse order. 

“Thank you gentlemen for the refreshments. We best get after it,” said Jaskier.

“Pitter patter!” said Wayne and poured out the last drops of beer on the ground.


	4. Chapter 4

“This critter is no fool, I’ll tell you that for free,” said Wayne, squinting even harder from his perch up on the hitching post. 

Jaskier cast an eye over the impressive thicket of the hemp field. Scraggly uneven plants well over a man’s height stood crammed close together, stretching as far as the eye could see. The air was fragrant with their resin.

“What, just because he had the sense to hide in this jungle?” said Jaskier. “Seems like a no brainer to me.”

“It’s not the jungle aspect but the hemp itself.” Wayne jumped down. “Hemp resin suppresses magic. ‘S why you’ll never see a Witcher smoke the leshen’s lettuce.”

“Is that right?” said Jaskier, making a mental note. 

“H’yeah. And you see those rows of poles out in the field? That there’s hops. Their pollen suppresses magic auras too. ‘S why you’ll never see a Witcher drink a beer other than an ale.”

“Is that right?” said Jaskier, making another mental note.

“H’yeah. So between the hemp and the hops, that thing’s safe as houses from anyone coming at it with a spell or a Sign or such.” 

“Is that right?” said Jaskier, who was starting to wish he had brought a notebook. “Well, that is something. So what do you intend to do about him?” asked Jaskier. 

Wayne hummed low in his throat and said: “Have a scrap, likeleh.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh I’m as serious as blisters on a cow’s feet, bard.”

“Let me see if I’ve understood you correctly. You, a Witcher from the highly reputable school of the Shepherd Dog, survivor of half a dozen Trials, wielder of swords and potions and Signs, are going to _brawl_ with the Posada devil?”

Wayne held a long pause, then said: 

“H’yeah.”

And disappeared in the hemp thicket.

* * *

“I don’t see why we couldn’t go about this in a more sensible fashion,” huffed Jaskier as he struggled through the fragrant forest that snagged every loose thread on his doublet and threatened to unhem his pants. “You have a horse. Surely it’d make more sense to ride through the field on said horse, and thus gain the benefit of actually finding your way through the field? And more importantly, finding a way out?”

“Need two people to bait someone on horseback,” pointed out Wayne without stopping or turning around. “And you ain’t a part of this operation.”

“So what, we’re just going to keep wandering through the field looking for this monster?”

“Ain’t no ‘we’ on this journey, bard, just me and your unasked-fer curiosity.”

“Well I’m certainly not going to miss out on this adventure,” said Jaskier, ducking under yet another hop trellis. “Wish I dressed lighter, though. I’m sweating like a pig.”

“Yeah, the atmosphere’s definitely on the moist side,” agreed Wayne.  
  
Jaskier winced. “Ugh, I hate that word.”

“What word? Atmosphere?”

“No, the other one.”

“Oh! 'Mo-o-oist'...” drawled Wayne, clearly enjoying the bard’s discomfort. 

“Yeah, that one.”

“What’s the matter, I thought bards loved the sound of moist any word?”

Jaskier groaned. 

“Just saying, moist bards would be glad to be along on such an escapade.”

Jaskier groaned louder. “Master Witcher, I beg you, no more or my ears will bleed...”

“Why, that’s almoist not worth thinking about...”

Jaskier opened his mouth to let the Witcher understand that bards were no strangers to profanity, when he ran straight into the man’s broad back: Wayne had made one of his abrupt and unannounced stops.

Taking a few seconds to appreciate the living steel of the muscles shifting under the Witcher’s homespun shirt, Jaskier looked up and over his shoulder. 

“Hey, you found it!”

“Hmmm,” said Wayne and stepped out into the small clearing in the hemp, where plants were crushed flat. In the middle of the clearing lay a large flat stone; on it stood several clay pots and bowls. Bits of several candles were stuck to the stone with melted wax and tallow. 

Jaskier bent down and picked up a white bean. 

“There’s beans scattered all around here,” he remarked. “And corn. Hazelnut shells... cherry stones… Looks like our devil had himself quite the picnic.”

Wayne squatted by the stone and began to examine the remnants of the creature’s feast more closely. Jaskier cursed and lifted his foot to look at the bottom of his boot. “What a fuckin’ pig sty,” he said. “Is that honey? Or tar?”

Wayne frowned at the dark sticky puddles on the ground and started to answer something, but his words were drowned out by a loud bleating.

Wayne straightened out and tugged at his shirt cuffs. Jaskier took a few steps back and faced in the same direction as the Witcher. Deep in the hemp, something stomped and scratched and rustled. Then the tops of hemp plants began to shake, and a creature rolled out of the thicket into the clearing. It was about waist-high to the men, with bulging eyes, hairy legs, and a large ever-mobile mouth with a goat’s maw and beard. 

“Oook ook-ook beeeeh!!” yelled the creature.

“Oh my God,” gasped Jaskier, unable to contain his glee. “You. Are. TINY!”

Wayne’s face remained stone-like in its immobility.

“Uk uk beeeh! Whaddayou doing here, you fucks? Beeeh beeh! You want my horns up your arses? Ook!”

“It talks! But can it do tricks?” asked Jaskier with a sneer. “How about a cartwheel, little fella?”

“You stay out of it, bard,” said Wayne.

“Bleeeeeehh bleeeh, think you’re funny, do you?” bleated the goatman.

“Not funnier than your face, that’s for sure,” snorted Jaskier.

“Fer fuck’s sake!” barked Wayne. “Shut yer mouth, bard!”

“Better listen to your boyfriend, bard,” mocked the goatman, whipping his sides with his long tail that ended in a tuft of coarse black hair. “Or I’ll have you singing a whole new kind of song!”

“Have you any coin to pay for my songs?” asked Jaskier and kicked over one of the bowls with corn kernels. “I don’t work for chickenfeed, goatboy.”

“Like getting paid in metal, do you? Bleeeh! Well! I gots some metal for you!” The goat man grabbed a handful of something from the ground and hurled it at the men. Jaskier gasped and fell back into the hemp, clutching at his head. Wayne dove in after him. 

“Scram!” he barked, pulling Jaskier to his feet. 

More missiles whizzed past them. One nailed Wayne in the shoulder, and he cursed as he stumbled. 

“Here, take it!” the goatman screamed as he hurled more and more metal balls at the ingloriously retreating monster hunters. “Take yer payment, you fucking clowns! Bleeeh! Take all your metal back! Blee-eeeh!”

A metal ball hit Wayne in the back, and another in the thigh. The goatman appeared to have an endless supply of projectiles. Somewhere ahead, Jaskier was swearing up a storm in every language he knew. 

The last thing they heard was a protracted triumphant bleat that sounded like hysterical laughter.


	5. Chapter 5

“Well that was a fiasco,” said Jaskier as he dunked a horseshoe into a bucket of well water before him.

“Just a bit of fuss,” Wayne maintained stubbornly.

“A bit of… Wayne! Look at the size of this hematoma!” Jaskier pointed emphatically to the goose egg swelling at his hairline, before placing the chilled horseshoe against it.

“Oh get off the cross, we need the wood.”

“You know, I thought you Witchers were supposed to keep people safe from monsters!”

“Not people foolhardy enough to traipse after us into the melee, fuck.”

Jaskier harrumphed and looked the Witcher over. “You’ve got grass stains everywhere. Even on your cheek,” he said. “And an eyelash.” He put the tip of his forefinger to Wayne’s cheek and lifted a surprisingly long blond lash. “Make a wish.”

“Wish you weren’t so fucking awkward, bard.”

For a while they sat in silence.

“Good arm on that devil,” finally said Jaskier.

“Good runner too, fuck can he run,” added Wayne.

The door of the tavern opened, and the young man who had commissioned Wayne came out, somewhat unsteady on his feet.

“Nettly, how are you now?” called out Wayne.

The young man stopped and stared. “Good ‘n you?” he mumbled bemusedly, taking in the sorry state of the Witcher and his hunting companion.

“Oh not so bad,” said Wayne.

There was an awkward pause.

“Wanna come in for a beer?” asked Nettly.

“I’d have a beer,” said Wayne, jumping to his feet.

“I’d have an aquavit,” grumbled Jaskier, rising slowly. “Make it double.”

* * *

“Now I’m not saying you did wrong by trying to take care of the problem yourselves,” said Wayne, his arms crossed defensively across his chest. “I’m just saying, I would have appreciated a heads up about it.”

“We figured it didn’t really matter since it didn’t make no difference,” said Nettly, head drooping over his pint. It was unclear whether this was from feelings of guilt or the fact that he was already sloshed.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” insisted Wayne. “If you hadn’t done anything and called me in, it would've only been a sylvan in there. But since you went and took measures on your own and then called me in, it was a sylvan armed with enough grapeshot to sink half the Skellige navy, fuck.”

“I am truly sorry, Master Witcher. ‘Twas our wise-woman who told us the remedy. She said to give the devil metal balls, that he would try to eat them and break his teeth…”

“Hang on a minute,” said Jaskier, squinting. “That story sounds familiar. Was there supposed to be a jar of honey involved? And a jar of tar?”

“Yes, but….”

“And then a tub of yoghurt and another tub of grey soap?”

“Right, but we never got to that part...”

“Melitele’s tits.” Jaskier turned to Wayne. “My old nurse used to tell me this tale.”

“What tale?” Wayne’s frown deepened into a truly unsettling scowl.

Jaskier downed his latest shot of aquavit and waved at the waitress to keep them coming. “It’s been an age since I heard it, but it goes something like this. There once was a kingdom being pestered by a sylvan. Mind you, I didn’t know what a sylvan was until today, so I always imagined it was some big scary lumbering thing. The king sent out word that whoever can expel this menace from his domain shall have the hand of the princess. All the knights in the land went at it with all their armor and weapons, with no success. But then the village fool, I forget his name, Dumbo or Dildo or something, he went to the edge of the forest at midnight with a picnic basket. He sat down and began to crack hazelnuts. The sylvan showed up and asked if they were good. Very good, the fool said. The sylvan then asked for some. And the fool gave him metal balls. The sylvan broke his tooth trying to crack one and thought: the man must have mighty jaws! Then the fool pulled out a jar of honey....”

“Don’t bore us, get to the chorus,” interrupted Wayne.

“The chorus?" Jaskier hiccupped. "The chorus is, eventually the fool tricked the sylvan into eating grey soap. The sylvan shat himself and fled the kingdom out of embarrassment. The end."

Wayne turned to Nettly:

“Is this the approximate size and shape of the intelligence you were working with?”

Nettly nodded dejectedly.

“Now what part of this story made you dinks think it was a good idea to simply dump an entire sack of metal balls in the sylvan's field?”

“We didn't just dump it," said Nettly defensively. "We mixed them in with his grain, figured he might still eat it!”

“What I don’t understand is, why didn't you just get together a mob with pitchforks?” asks Jaskier. "Why even bother with metal balls? Why hire a Witcher?"

“Wise woman told us not to kill him,” said Nettly. “Said it would bring great misfortune on us.”

Wayne picked up his pint of ale and drank the rest of it before standing up.

“I’ll be having the money now,” he declared to Nettly.

“Yes, of course,” muttered Nettly, reaching for the money bag inside his blouse. “But can we make it just fifty ducats? The sylvan’s still there, we’ll need to hire another Witcher…”

“Hard no,” said Wayne. “I’m still hired. But this job is going to call for some potions I haven’t got, so I’ll be needing it upfront now. To shop, like.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Shopping.”

“H’yeah.”

“You’re going shopping?”

“'S right."

Wayne walked with the speed and air of a royal courier; to keep pace with him, Jaskier had to break into an occasional undignified trot. The street being spotted with cow patties and horse apples, this meant speaking while hopping from foot to foot and occasionally leaping over fetid puddles.

“You’re going shopping. For potions. In Lower Posada.” Jaskier gestured broadly with both arms, indicating the tavern on one side, the town hall on the other, and the endless field of ripe barley beyond them all. “Where, exactly, are you hoping to find them?”

“The alchemist’s, likeleh,” said Wayne, stepping over piles and puddles without breaking his stride. Jaskier had once seen a tomcat stroll down a barbed wire fence with similar ease.

“Right, of course. The alchemist’s. That establishment commonly found in towns in the middle of nowhere with only one tavern.”

“You saying a town with only one tavern can’t have an alchemist?”

“Not in my experience.”

“Okay, Jaskier. Jaskier, okay. In your experience, do towns with only one tavern have Witchers?”

That gave Jaskier pause.

“You got me there.”

“Fuckin’ right.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that while some one-tavern towns might have no alchemists, one-tavern towns whose residents consider themselves plagued by banes, elves, flying drakes, giant pikes, imps, kobolds, mamunes, misguids, myriapodans, and now even sylvans, are almost certain to have at least one."

They walked in silence for a minute or so, passing a tanner’s outlet, a tailor, and a bakery.

“So you don’t brew your own potions?” asked Jaskier when they got to a crossroads.

“Not my forte,” said Wayne, stopping suddenly and lifting his head, as if to scent the air. Then he confidently turned left. Jaskier followed him.

“Where are you based? Your school, I mean?”

“You know Kaer Morhen keep in Kaedwen?”

“The School of the Wolf? Of course.”

“We’re a bit further southerleh.”

“I suppose you’ll be heading back there in a couple of months.”

“Now why would I do that?” asked Wayne, with obvious puzzlement.

“What do you mean?” Jaskier scratched at the back of his head. “Everyone knows Witchers return home to their schools come wintertime.”

“What for?”

“To train and swap tales and wait out the cold by huge roaring fires…”

“Hard no,” said Wayne proudly. “Monsters don’t retire to the mountains to wait out the winter, why should we?”

They were passing an open field now. Jaskier looked around, seeing nothing but wildflowers, bumblebees, several scattered barns, and an occasional patch of sweetpeas gone to seed.

“I think we strolled right out of town,” he remarked.

“Well, I’m not surprised,” said Wayne. “Only a dink would store explosives in a residential neighborhood.”

“Right, right… wait, what?” Jaskier yelped as Wayne turned off the road and onto a small footpath cutting through the field. A small wooden sign shaped like an arrow indicated it as the way to "Potions, amulets, etc."

“Pitter patter!” called out Wayne without turning around.

* * *

The inside of the shed Jaskier followed Wayne into greeted them with a heady aroma of hemp oil. Jars of it were stacked against the rough-hewn log walls; tubes of it sat on the counter; heaps of hemp packed in sacks crowded the floor. Clearly, amulets were not what made up for most of the shop’s revenue stream. 

“How are you now?” called out Wayne to the shriveled old man barely visible above the counter.

“Good ‘n you?” answered the vendor without looking up from the apothecary scale he was adjusting with a screwdriver.

“Oh, not so bad.” Wayne stopped a foot or so away from the counter, thumbs still tucked into his empty belt loops. After a few seconds, the old man looked up and blinked at his visitors through champagne bottle spectacles - green-tinted and as thick as a man’s palm.

“What brings you to my humble emporium?” asked the old man.

“Heard you might sell puppers,” answered Wayne.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, my dear boy. No dogs for sale here. We’ve got ointments, unguents, treacles…” – he lowered his voice – “emmenagogues…”

Wayne pulled at the leather cord around his neck and withdrew the silver medallion from behind his shirt.

“How about gussen brew?” he said in a low voice. “You got any in stock?”

The old man leaned in, adjusting the spectacles on his nose, and squinted at the silhouette of the happily panting Shepherd dog stamped into the silver.

“Oh my,” he said. “Don’t tell me Modeans burned down again?”

“Can confirm.” Wayne tucked the medallion back into his shirt.

“Oh dear,” sighed the old man. “Well, I can send Alfred to look around the storeroom… Alfred!” he yelled in a surprisingly sonorous voice. “But I do believe I sold the last of it back in the springtime…There was a Witcher fellow who came through town then, a Shepherd Dog like yourself…”

“Thin feller or fat feller?” asked Wayne.

Suddenly, a trap door popped open by the counter, and a bright orange head poked out of it. The head sported the same oversized goggles as the old man.

“Alfred, check the asbestos chest for bottles with the dog pictures on them. Any kind, clear or cloudy. Gloves and tongs, remember!”

Alfred disappeared back into his trap door without a word.

“Mmm, yes… what was I saying?” mumbled the alchemist. “Oh yes. Your colleague. Thin lad, he was, lots of curls. Wore a sort of single-piece armor…”

“That’d be Darry,” said Wayne with obvious fondness. Jaskier felt a prickle of jealousy.

“Came in spitting foam, he did,” went on the alchemist. "Scared poor Alfred to bits…”

“Great one for wrangling vermin, is Darry,” remarked Wayne. “Got bit so many times, his bloodstream's mostly venom now, fuck.”

“Yes, well, ‘twas your hydrophobic friend who cleaned out my Gussenbrew stores. Chugged one of the bottles right in front of me.”

“Atta boy,” said Wayne with approval.

The trap door popped open again.

“Chest is empty,” said Alfred and dove back down again.

“Unfortunate,” said Wayne.

“Is there anything else I can offer you?" asked the old man. "You know, another Witcher is currently reviewing my latest shipment of herbs from the mountains in the main store room. Wolf School gentleman, I believe. I know you do not use quite the same decoctions, but perhaps there is some overlap?”


	7. Chapter 7

Jaskier peeked out from behind Wayne’s shoulder at the man sniffing a bundle of dried herbs in his hand.

The stranger was taller than either of them (what are they feeding these Witchers, wondered Jaskier, before realizing that duh, mutagenic herbs and potions). His light yellow-gray hair cascaded over his shoulders like a grimy waterfall (welp, I’m screwed thought Jaskier, feeling a rush of poetic inspiration). Unlike Wayne, whose outfit differed little from that of the local well-to-do peasants, this new Witcher sported full body armor of studded leather, which exaggerated his already broad shoulders and drew the eye to his belt-cinched waist. His tight leather trousers left little to the imagination, and even that was mostly due to the poor lighting in the herb storage chamber.

While Jaskier’s eyes roamed over this unexpected bounty, Wayne stepped over the threshold and extended his arm. The Wolf Witcher put down the herb bundle and clasped the hand without any change of facial expression.

“Geralt, how are you now?”

“Good ‘n you?” said the man in a low hoarse voice that sounded as though it had lived off pipe tobacco and whiskey since puberty.

“Oh, not so bad.”

Geralt’s eyes, Jaskier noticed, were bright yellow. Ordinarily, the bard’s mind would’ve probably conjured up some romantic image of a lone white wolf, but after hearing Wayne commiserate with a peasant about coyotes that were snatching chickens out of a busted coop, all that came to mind was Wayne’s annoyed voice grumbling about “them yellow-eyed bastards”.

“Come to dance with the local devil?” asked Geralt, returning his attention to the table with bundles of herbs.

“All in a day’s work,” said Wayne.

“Hmm,” said Geralt.

“Say, you wouldn’t happen to have any Gussenbrew in your reserves?”

“Never touch the stuff,” said Geralt.

“Unfortunate,” said Wayne.

“Let me guess: Modeans burned down again.”

“Can confirm.”

Geralt smelled another bundle, and put it in the flat wicker basket hanging off his arm.

“Last time I came across Gussenbrew was mid-March,” he said. “And most of that was on a man’s breath.”

“Thin feller or fat feller?” asked Wayne.

“Thin,” said Geralt. “I stumbled upon his campsite, thought he might need assistance. But he seemed happy enough.”

“What was he up to?”

“Dancing madly around the fire, naked and covered in putrid foam.”

“That’d be Darry,” said Wayne with fondness.

“There were three bottles nearby, two empty and one full.”

“Atta boy,” said Wayne.

They headed back to the alchemist, Wayne still empty-handed. Geralt deposited his basket on the counter.

“One bundle fumitory, two bundles boneset, eleven ounces fruit of jimsonweed…” mumbled the alchemist as he weighed the purchases.

“You could try mith,” said Geralt.

Wayne creaked like a warping floorboard.

The alchemist paused in his counting and looked at them severely.

“You will find none on these premises,” he said with a huff. “I do not sell mith.”

“Well, someone’s selling it,” said Geralt. “Seen quite a few mith-heads around Posada lately.”

"That would explain why no one's supplying any joint-fir this season," sighed the alchemist. "They must be buying it up. Pity - joint-fir is good for a hundred ailments..."

“Fucking skids,” said Wayne. “Whole town’s gone to mith because of them.”

“What is ‘mith’?” asked Jaskier, unable to hold back.

Geralt’s yellow eyes fixed on him. “Who’s this?” he asked, as though only noticing Jaskier this second.

“I am Jaskier, good sir, a bard from…”

“Just kidding, I don’t give a fuck,” said Geralt as he dropped two gold coins into the alchemist’s palm, took the paper bundle with his purchases, and left the shop.


	8. Chapter 8

After returning from the alchemist’s shop, Jaskier spent several hours in his room penning song lyrics, awash in inspiration from his two new acquaintances. The result of his seclusion were half a tear-jerking ballad and two verses of a new drinking song about heroic Witchers set to the tune of an old sailor shanty about a long-awaited supply ship. (Jaskier tentatively titled it “The Witcher-man”.)

Geralt, meanwhile, locked himself in his room down the hall to sharpen his blades and clean his armor. There being only three rooms in the inn, he and Jaskier shared a wall, and twice Jaskier had to abandon his literary pursuits in favor of relieving amorous tension to the sounds of sliding steel and rhythmic grunting – Geralt liked to break up the monotony of his work with some sort of floor exercises.

As for Wayne, not being one to waste a day, especially such a great day for hay, he headed off to the fields and put a shoulder to the communal hauling in of the cut grass. Of the three of them, he arrived to the tavern dinner table in the best spirits, lightly sunburned and with his scowl relaxed into a regular human frown.

Now that they had demolished their dinner of mutton and potatoes, Geralt was sipping something from a chased silver flask, and Wayne was smoking his hand-rolled cigarettes. Both were trying and failing to convince Jaskier that a Witcher's life was one of monotony punctuated with spikes of adrenaline and bouts of gore, and that it did not merit a poetic spotlight.

“Well, you’re wrong. It all sounds absolutely fascinating,” said Jaskier stubbornly.

Wayne took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke politely out of the open window. “Well, it’s a hard life takin’ bounties and killin’ monsters, but as sure as Melitele's got tits, it beats fighting Nilfgaardians.”

“I don’t see why you even bother,” said Geralt. “Your school’s got farms, forest, a stretch of river. Why go off chasing monsters when you can live your lives in peace?”

“A ship’s safe in the harbor, but that is not a ship's destiny,” mused Jaskier. “Perhaps Wayne feels the call to service more keenly than some others.”

“Well there’s no need to act a dick about it,” said Wayne. “Man asks you for help, you help him.”

Geralt snorted.

“Trade you places, woofer. You take over my route for a year, and I take over your farm. We’ll see how charitable you still feel towards mankind at the end of your tour.”

“Hard no,” said Wayne and ashed his cigarette. “Besides, you run my farm for a year, you won’t be fit to return to the Path afterwards, and I won’t have a harvest worth carting to the market.”

“How come you fellows don’t do what the Dog School does?” asked Jaskier. “Trade off riding the Path every few years, spend more of your time in peaceful pursuits?”

Geralt winced. “Wolves aren’t the chummy clan Dogs are,” he said. “Nor nearly as numerous. Leitir Ceannainn is practically a state onto itself.”

“He’s being modest,” said Wayne. “Truth of it is, the Dog School is small-time Witchering. Pest control, mostleh. If it’s menacing farms or berry fields, or timber-works, that’s our row to hoe. We patrol villages and byroads, not castles and capitals. We don’t get summoned by kings to exorcise demons from their heir apparent. Or stake a vampire draining the royal courtesans.”

“I got called in once to join a Duke on a hunting party,” said Geralt. “He wanted to kill a green dragon.”

“You wanna know what?” exclaimed Wayne. “You got a problem with majestic green dragons, you got a problem with me, and I suggest you let that one marinate!”

“When I was coming up, we'd be lucky to survive a dragon attack,” added Geralt. “Now rich dicks are so bored they want to hunt them for sport. Must be fuckin' nice!”

“Oughta leave this world behind,” concluded Wayne and lit another cigarette from the end of the first.

“What’s wrong with hunting dragons?” asked Jaskier. “Don’t they steal livestock and such?”

Wayne sat up straight as a rod and pointed at Jaskier with his new cigarette:

“Tell you what, if you’re accusing green dragons of stealing, you’re accusing me of stealing, and I suggest you let that one marinate!”

“That’s just the thing,” said Geralt. “Dragons don’t do shit to humans. Most of them never leave the mountains. If something’s raiding your farm, that’s either coyotes, wolves, bears, or some magical vermin from the nearby forest.”

“Or a hairy asshole with horns,” said Wayne.

“Speaking of which,” said Jaskier, “you’ve yet to say how you intend to, as you so charmingly put it, fuck this pig.”

Wayne groaned.

“Or goat, rather,” amended Jaskier.

Geralt looked at them with new worry. “A sylvan?”

“Can confirm,” said Wayne.

Geralt shook his head. “No killing, then.”

“I was going to have a scrap.”

“A scrap.” Geralt sounded incredulous.

“H’yeah.”

“And then what?”

“Then…” Wayne frowned even harder. “Well, then he’d… like… I would tell him to move out of the territoreh, and he would have to listen.”

“Why?”

There was a pause.

“So’s not to get the beats again?” suggested Wayne.

“He’s a goat,” pointed out Geralt. “He spends half his days running into things head first.”

“Well now, you might have a point there…”

There was another pause while the Witchers pondered their conundrum.

“We could call in reinforcements,” suggested Jaskier, who liked to be helpful. “That might scare him out of town.”

“Lambert?” suggested Geralt. “He’s still in Vengerberg, I think…”

“Mmm, no,” said Wayne.

“Why not? He’s tougher than hell.”

“Yeah, but…” Wayne glanced around and leaned in over the table. “You heard he fucked a cockatrice, right?” he said, lowering his voice.

“He WHAT?” Jaskier’s blue eyes widened to the size of marbles.

“He fucked a cockatrice?” repeated Wayne.

“Allegedly,” said Geralt, visibly uncomfortable.

“How does a fellow get caught up in that sort of business?” asked Jaskier.

“Well, he got a task to clear the Vengerberg mayor’s wine cellar of a cockatrice, and he thought it might be fun to fuck it.”

“Allegedly,” insisted Geralt.

“So, he got hard, somehow… and he fucked the cockatrice.”

“That’s fucked,” said Jaskier. "Yeah, let’s not call him.”

“I should say,” said Wayne, counting out the coins to pay for his meal.

“Speaking of inappropriate fucking,” said Geralt, leaving his own coins by his plate, “I’d appreciate it if the bard stopped jerking off to me doing push-ups next door.”

“What a … preposterous! … accusation,” squeaked Jaskier, heat flooding his face and neck almost to his nipples.

Geralt tapped his nose. “Witcher senses,” he said.

It was, surprisingly, Wayne who came to Jaskier’s defense. “Come now, there’s nothing wrong with batchin’ when you’re all alone in your room.”

“Yeah, nothing wrong with… dealing a hand of solitaire…” said Jaskier, somewhat buoyed.

Geralt looked at them both with stony disapproval.

“Sowing the winter barley,” continued Wayne.

“Raiding the quail-nest,” added Jaskier.

“Nothing wrong with petting the otter, Geralt,” said Wayne.

“Consulting the wizard.”

“Counting out some groats.”

“Pulling the leshen by the nose.”

“Look, I know there’s nothing wrong with oiling the ghoul-stake, I know that!” said Geralt. “But can you please do it out of my smelling range?”

“What *is* your smelling range?” asked Jaskier, curious.

“Yeah, Geralt, would he have to move to Upper Posada every time he wanted to feed the ducks, or…”

With a growl, Geralt rose from the table and headed out of the tavern.

“No need to be such a poopy-pants!” Wayne yelled after him.


	9. Chapter 9

“Still can’t believe neither of you would give me a ride,” whined Jaskier, hopping on one foot to shake a pebble out of his shoe. “My blisters are getting blisters.”

“Your fault for wearing dancing shoes to the country,” pointed out Wayne. “You swapped out the doublet but left on your clogs with buckles, what kind of backwards fucking pageantry is that?”

“Not all of us can afford the comfort of going about everywhere in shit-kickers,” said Jaskier. “I’m a bard; I need to dress the part. The next time I play might be in a ballroom.”

Wayne snorted.

“What? You don’t believe me?” Jaskier reshod himself, stomped twice, and resumed his uphill trudge.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve played in plenty of ballrooms,” said Wayne blandly, squeezing Stormy lightly with his thighs and setting her walking.

Up ahead, Geralt had stopped Roach at a hairpin turn and was looking back at them with a frown tighter than Wayne’s own.

“At this pace, we won’t make it to the skids before midnight,” grumbled Geralt.

“I thought you said they’ll be there all night?” asked Jaskier.

“They will, but their product might not be.”

“Well, to be fair…” said Wayne

“Oh, don’t say to be fair, I _hate_ when people say to be fair,” said Jaskier. “They always sound like ‘Ah, to be faaay-uh…’”

“’To be feeeh-aaah,’” echoed Wayne.

Both looked at Geralt, who looked back at them like they were mad and urged Roach onward and upward.

“He always like this?” asked Jaskier.

“How’s that?”

“Broody. Joyless. Rude.”

Wayne gave it a few seconds’ thought.

“Well, he’s got a tough Path to follow, tougher ‘an most.”

“And you don’t?”

“I’ve got folks in my corner. He’s in it alone.”

Jaskier stared after Geralt, or rather after Roach’s behind in a cloud of dust, and sighed.

“Uh oh,” rumbled Wayne.

“What?”

“You have the look.”

“What look?”

“Like the next ballroom you want to play in is Geralt’s.”

“Not a lot of that, in those pants of his,” remarked Jaskier.

“Oh yeah, those are real ball-tuggers,” agreed Wayne.

“Total testicle-tweakers.”

“Absolute nut-crackers, I’m telling ya.”

“Utter groin-mashers.”

“Just a real pair of omelet-mixers.”

They caught up with Geralt, who was trying to convince Roach to leave alone a particularly delicious patch of grass.

“Might as well tie up the horses here,” said Wayne, dismounting. “There’s boulders ahead.”

* * *

There were, indeed, boulders ahead, but to Jaskier’s immense relief, the abandoned elf palace was just beyond the boulders.

It did not become cloudy after all, and the moon shone splendidly over the ruins. Most of the palace had been leveled in the course of the battles for the land between human and elf, but one gallery remained almost intact, with columns of blood-plume marble and even most of the roof.

They heard the skids before they saw them: a group of five strangely dressed men dancing in the gallery to eerie rhythmic music emanating from no visible instrument. Four of them were dressed in black suspender pants over naked bodies and dark face masks. The leader, long-haired and light-eyed, sported an emerald green coat and top hat, ghoulishly brilliant against the backdrop of ancient battlefields.

The leader raised a slender white hand. The men froze in place as they were; the music died down, blending into the nighttime chorus of crickets and bats.

“Well well well,” said the leader in a beguiling, slightly hoarse voice. “Uaithne of Leitir Ceanainn, as I live and breathe.”

“Stewart,” said Wayne through a tight jaw. “How ‘re ya now?”

“Delightful.” Stewart turned towards Geralt, then Jaskier. “Wondrous, even!”

“Oh, not so bad,” concluded Wayne, looking somewhere above Stewart’s head into the hills.

Stewart let loose an unpleasant giggle that sent a chill up Jaskier’s spine. “What a queer little pack: a wolf, a dog, and a tit.” He locked eyes with Jaskier, who took an involuntary step back. “What brings you here, Wayne?”

“Looking to buy a bottle of Gussenbrew, heard you might have some in stock.”

“Indeed! I take it Modean's suffered yet another conflagration?”

“Can confirm.”

“It’ll cost you,” remarked Stewart with a smirk.

“Pitter patter.”

Stewart drew in a long breath of air through his delicate nostrils, then cried out:

“ROALD!”

A short bug-eyed skid with a rats-nest of curls materialized near Stewart’s armpit and chirruped:

“Strrt?”

“Run along and fetch our dear friend Wayne a bottle of canine finest.”

Roald slinked away into the darkness. Stewart looked back, waved his hand in the air and whispered something. It must’ve been an unfreezing spell, because the other three skids immediately collapsed moaning on the ground.

Stewart backed up towards them, waving his hands in the air as though conducting an invisible orchestra. Colored lights flared up along the gallery, not candles or torches, but spheres that emitted no smoke. Jaskier, who like any sensible man was wary of sorcerers, hid behind the comforting bulk of Geralt’s back.

“Only one bottle left,” said Stewart, stepping behind something like a pulpit upon which a large tome lay open. “Sold the rest to a pack-mate of yours back in…” - he flipped a few pages of the tome and waved a fairy light closer to it – “…March.”

“Thin feller or fat feller?” asked Wayne.

“Slender and ginger.”

“That’d be Darry,” said Wayne with fondness.

“He took two bottles; said one was for now and one was for, and I quote, ‘brefaxt’.”

“Attaboy,” said Wayne.

With a light illuminating Stewart up close, it was now obvious that the leader of the skids was not well. His young and once beautiful face was pitted with sores; his lips were cracked and pale; and his long hair lay limp and greasy under his marvelous hat.

The small hairy Roald materialized once more under Stewart’s armpit. He was wearing comically thick mittens and holding a large brown bottle.

“A hundred oren,” said Stewart, dipping a raven’s quill into a pot on black ink and starting a new row in the ledger.

“Well, that sounds like retail to me,” said Wayne, his thumbs in his belt-loops.

Stewart paused his scribbling and looked up from the ledger.

“Are you trying to _dicker_?”

“Look, Stewart, you and me both know no one but a Shepherd’s gonna come after your leftover Gussenbrew. If I walk away right now, you might not see another one of us for another year. And you keep that stuff in a pony keg another year, any sort of thing might happen. You know as well as I do, if it blows, it’ll take oot half your men and all your fancy glassware. Way I see it, you oughta be paying me to take this fire hazard off your hands, fuck.”

Stewart ground his teeth and shot out his hand to the side, making a strangling motion. Roald grabbed his own throat and floated a foot into the air, choking. Stewart shook his hapless minion in the air like a terrier shakes a rat, then threw him to the ground. Whimpering, Roald scampered off to rejoin the rest of the entourage.

“Now, what’s the absolute best you can do on it?” asked Wayne, as though nothing had happened.

“One. Hundred. Oren,” repeated Stewart.

Wayne looked up at the dark sky, squinting as though it were broad daylight. “Suppose I bundle it with something,” he suggested.

Stewart’s eyebrows rose. “What did you have in mind?”

“Heard you’ve been buying up joint-fir from the locals,” said Wayne.

“What business is it of yours?” said Stewart, skewering the dog Witcher with an icy glare.

“Heard you’ve been using that joint-fir to brew mith,” said Wayne.

“To use a suitably hickish idiom, not your pig, not your farm,” said Stewart. “Or have you come around to wanting a taste?”

“I’ll admit to a smidgen of curiositeh.”

Stewart smiled a slow, wide, gleeful smile.

**Author's Note:**

> axmxz on tumblr - come by and say hi


End file.
